


questions of sight

by jan



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/pseuds/jan
Summary: Not everyone sees the same things, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluedreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/gifts).



> dear bluedreaming,
> 
> when i saw you were interested in less conventional structures, i thought i’d try to experiment a bit.  
> thanks for giving me the chance to do so, and to write about these characters!  
> i hope you're having a great festive season. :)

_i. depth perception_

It’s a chance meeting. Or it seems like one, at least. Natsume’s not sure he still believes in chance meetings, not when Matoba Seiji is involved. Nyanko-sensei’s absence doesn’t help; the silence of the surrounding fields acquires an ominous air, as Matoba’s unhurried pace takes him closer and closer.

|   |   |    
---|---|---|---  
  
Natsume tightens his grip on his bag, keeps walking, tells himself not to be silly. Nyanko-sensei is merely off on some wagashi-related quest, and this innocuous country road isn’t even Natsume’s usual way home. There’s no reason to think that Matoba’s looking for him -- especially since the exorcist is in neither a suit nor formal robes.

(There’s surely something ridiculous about the head of a powerful clan wearing a hoodie and jeans. Natsume hopes to someday be fearless enough to think that.)

Matoba’s almost within earshot, now. A different, ridiculously banal stab of panic: what’s the right etiquette? Pass by with an acknowledging nod? Stop and chat?

In the end, Matoba resolves the question himself, slowing to a stop several feet away. He seems to have a grasp of personal space, this time; Natsume’s relieved, then annoyed that he has to feel relieved.

“Matoba-san,” he says, to be polite.

|   |   | 

What _is_ that first reaction, when you spot him? Recognition, yes, but not simply at the level of fact. Perhaps: something like resonance. Sensing a strong spiritual aura isn’t too different from one predator acknowledging another. Which is to say:

i. recognising that you could be trouble for each other

ii. because you are of the same kind.

At least partly inaccurate, where Natsume is concerned. But that’s what makes him interesting.  
  
Matoba smiles. Not that he ever does anything else. “Natsume-kun. Not busy chasing youkai again, I hope?”

“No.” Small talk with Matoba Seiji -- has it really come to this? “I’ll just be going--”

Matoba shifts his weight. Barely a movement at all, yet Natsume has the sudden impression that his path is now blocked.

“You’ve become quite a talking point in the community,” Matoba goes on. “Some older exorcists are… taking an interest. A word of advice, Natsume-kun: if you did plan to become someone’s apprentice, you would be best off with us.”

|   |   | 

You smile. By now it’s reflex, never an attempt at sincerity. You don’t need to bother yourself with such things; nor does anyone expect it from the head of the Matoba clan.

(Some could ask if it’s a weapon, or a mask. The wrong question. Anything can become a weapon.)  
  
Oh. This again.

“I don’t have such plans,” Natsume says stiffly.

If a smile can look unconvinced, Matoba’s certainly does. “No? Not even with Shuuichi-san?”

“No,” Natsume says, faintly irritated. That’s not what Natori is, to him.

Matoba shrugs. “Well, I’m sure there are some things even he could teach you. But the Matoba clan’s resources are far more extensive. And of course we have... a decent understanding of inheritance. If you wanted to learn more about your own grandmother, say...”

Natsume takes a deep breath. Remembers a day, not long ago, when Matoba stood smiling in front of the first safe haven Natsume’s ever known, and politely threatened to destroy it. And now Matoba stands before him again, offering to -- ransack Natsume’s past? Use it for the Matoba clan’s own ends?

|   |   | 

This is familiar, which is not the same as nostalgic. You knew someone, once, who could see part of it -- the deep red that carpets this world, the underlying laws of blood and bloodlines -- but not nearly enough.

Natsume, though; he’d see more, you’re sure. Peonies and chrysanthemums blooming in the silken dark, spilling bright across fabric like uncovered secrets. _Hanakotoba:_ white petals for truth or grief, which are ultimately the same thing --

\-- but no, that’s only part of the pattern, the surface layer. Go deeper: yellow for inheritance, for power passed down through generations. That, if nothing else, Natsume must surely understand.  
  
“I’m fine,” Natsume says. “I’ll do things my own way.”

He doesn’t thank Matoba for the offer.

|   |   | 

(Another thing that’s familiar. Or would be, if you chose to let yourself remember.)  
  
It’s become easier, he realises. Easier to stand his ground, to face Matoba without flinching. Maybe it comes with practice. It hasn’t been long since the last time he did so, and the memory of Nyanko-sensei’s back-up offers comfort even though the youkai’s not actually there.

Until, in a whirl of white fur -- Nyanko-sensei _is_ there. Or rather: Madara is.

“Wasting time again, Natsume? I’m getting hungry.”

“I thought you were getting wagashi,” Natsume says mildly, stroking the side of Madara’s neck with one hand. Reassurance -- for Madara, or for himself, or for both of them.

“Plenty of other things to eat around here.”

|   |   |    
  
Madara’s growl is a promise. Perhaps it’s always been one. Matoba looks up serenely at the snarl, the bared fangs; looks back down at Natsume. “I shan’t keep you any longer, then. Just remember that the offer’s always open.”

He steps around Natsume, walks past without bothering to give Madara a wide berth. Natsume half-turns to watch, hand still curled in the youkai’s thick fur.

Then he turns back to Madara, and smiles. The gesture doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is.

“Sensei. Let’s go home.”

|   |   | 

You’ve always been interested in things that you can use; never in things that you can’t have.

That’s where the trick lies, in the end: how to keep the former from becoming the latter.  
  
* * *

 

_ii. afterimage_

“But really, Nyanko-sensei -- you don’t have to threaten to eat people all the time, you know.”

Natsume’s safe in his room, now, so why should he complain? Madara yawns; stretches, flexes his claws. “And you don’t have to stop me.” _She_ might not have stopped him, which is precisely why Madara never offered, back then. Not that she was cruel, far from it. But cornered animals don’t always know what they’re doing.

Natsume sighs, turns a page of his workbook. “Just because I don’t like Matoba-san doesn’t mean I want him to get hurt.”

He’s quiet for a long while after that, his pencil moving over paper. Madara swishes his tail idly. Reiko’s stillness was never of this sort, never so… settled. There was always that undercurrent of restlessness, whether she was perched on a tree branch or staring out over a river or even lying in a field, eyes searching the sky for something she’d never been able to name. Autumn winds and rustling grass. There’s something strangely relaxed about the line of Natsume’s back. Madara doesn’t know much about this ‘schoolwork’ thing, but even he doubts that humans should seem quite this content to be engaged in it.

“Sensei,” Natsume complains, pushing at Madara’s tail -- oh, was it in the way? “You’re taking up too much space. Can’t you go back to your round form?”

_“Back?”_ Madara says sharply. “This is my true form, if you’ve forgotten.”

But he complies, notices Natsume’s quiet smile as he does so. Soft -- and that’s always been the difference, hasn’t it? Reiko’s smiles were as fierce and wild as the rest of her. Softness was a luxury, a weakness she couldn’t afford. Or so she always claimed -- not out loud, perhaps, but in the brashness of her stride, the hefting of that omnipresent baseball bat. Yet she’d had her own ways of being kind.

Natsume reaches out to pat him, absently, eyes still focused on the table. “Thanks, sensei.”

Madara closes his eyes. He’s not purring, thank you very much; a proud youkai such as himself doesn’t purr. This, at least, is familiar.

 

* * *

 

_iii. accommodation  
n. the process by which the eye refocuses as a object's distance changes_

There’s something impossibly comfortable about these afternoons, Natsume thinks. Just -- having somewhere to be, somewhere he _can_ be, where he doesn’t feel that he has to apologise for being there.

(Having someone who doesn’t mind his company. As far as Natsume can tell, anyway. For all he knows, maybe Tanuma--

\--no. He won’t think that way. Tanuma’s told him not to think that way.

Natsume’s trying.)

He sneaks a glance at Tanuma, across the table. Tanuma’s hair has grown long again, his fringe falling over his eyes a little. It looks kind of--

Never mind. Natsume blinks rapidly, turns back to the worksheet before him. It’s a silly thing to notice, anyway.

|  | 

There’s something comforting about just watching Natsume concentrate on homework. (This is the sort of ridiculous thought Tanuma doesn’t usually allow himself to have, because firstly it’s weird and way too sappy and secondly it makes him seem kind of stalkerish and thirdly what does Tanuma even think he’s doing, having such thoughts about his best friend _(can he even call Natsume that? are they even best friends?)_ as if he’s in one of those shoujo manga that Nishimura secretly reads?) Mainly because it’s nice to see Natsume frowning over something that doesn’t involve ominous youkai or possible curses or, you know. Trouble.

Although homework can be troublesome enough. Tanuma looks back down at his own book before Natsume can notice him staring. There’s been enough gaze-meeting moments over the past few weeks. (Which does not help Tanuma’s self-consciousness about being potentially stalkerish, at all.)  
  
---|---|---  
  
_It’s nice_ , he thinks, even as he feels silly for thinking so. _Just being here, like this. Together._  
  
He tells himself to concentrate, to focus on what they’re supposed to be tackling today: a last-minute stab at finishing their summer homework before the new semester starts.

It works, for a bit. Until Tanuma calls his name and Natsume looks up and sees something he can’t _(won’t)_ name in Tanuma’s eyes and feels his heart jump, in defiance of all logic: _I’m just overthinking this, just being ridiculous, who do I think I am, why would Tanuma even--_

_\--why would anyone-- I shouldn’t--_

_(I want--)_

|  | 

He gets through one page, then another, before he lets himself look up again. And maybe it’s the drowsy summer heat, the way the afternoon light falls on Natsume’s blond hair and impossibly thick eyelashes, but--

“Natsume,” he says, regretting it almost instantly, because now Natsume is going to look up and Tanuma is going to have to say something lame like _“No, nothing -- sorry”_ and things will be stupidly awkward --

\-- and then Natsume does look up, and Tanuma says, unthinkingly, “I really like--”  
  
_(you)_  
  
(What?)

For a moment he thought-- but no, no, of course not. (What had he expected?) Natsume breathes, breathes, refuses to follow that thought any further. Holds Tanuma’s gaze and -- realises that Tanuma looks just as stunned as he is.

That realization’s enough. The fondness comes sudden and instinctive, welling up warm somewhere behind Natsume’s ribs. He smiles.

“Yeah,” Natsume says. “Me too.”

He means it in ways he can’t express, ways he still doesn’t have the words for. A whole vocabulary that he’s only begun to learn: what it means to allow oneself to be. To belong somewhere. To belong with--

No. He doesn’t have the words. Not yet. But--

|  | 

“...this,” he corrects himself, just in time, and yep, that was exactly as lame as expected.

Natsume looks blank. Tanuma should look away, break the moment. The safe decision. But he can’t.

And then, as he stares back, quietly panicking, Natsume’s expression softens. He smiles and replies and it’s so simple and ordinary that Tanuma discovers he can breathe again.

“Good,” he manages, before he dies of embarrassment entirely.

There are so many other things Tanuma wants to say, so many words jostling for space in his chest, in his throat. One day they’ll get free, he knows; one day he won’t be able to rein them in. Maybe he won’t even want to.

_Not yet. Not now. But --_  
  
_Someday_ , he thinks, not looking away. _Maybe even someday soon._


End file.
